For this week, I intended on writing a story about terrifying street-food in Rangoon… but then I arrived in the mountain village of Kalaw, and suffered an incident so absurd that I couldn’t resist sharing my tale immediately.

There are times in life when blissful ignorance rewards you handsomely. Other times, however, that ignorance only serves to blow up in your face, shouting at you to grab your ankles, as it spits on its unforgiving hand.

I’ll let you decide which category this little ditty falls under…

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            At 7:30 in the morning, the tribal markets of Kalaw were simply too much to handle. Perhaps I was just overtired. But perhaps it was the acrid stench of dried fish, and the flurry of ruby stained machetes, hacking and dismembering animal carcasses on wooden stumps with an unnerving thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Either way, the whole ordeal hit me like a gallon of espresso.

I jostled my way through the crowd, past endless aisles of bamboo mats piled high with chili, ginger, garlic, and bananas; vibrant mountains of produce, meat, and Burmese handicrafts. Behind the bamboo mats sat women from the Pa-O, Danu, Palaung, Danaw and Taung-Yo hill tribes, their weathered faces adorned with brown thanaka paint and framed beneath traditional cloth headdresses.They watched the crowd shuffle by, shouting in a dozen tribal dialects and hungrily puffing herbal cigars.

I was so caught up in the maelstrom of colors and sounds, that I failed to notice the sharp turn in the path ahead of me, and nearly crashed into a shaky, wooden stall.

“Mingala’ba!” greeted the young woman inside, catching my attention just in time. It was then, as I turned towards her and her cast-iron wok, that I eyed that fateful stack of Burmese pancakes…

How enticing they looked, majestically stacked on a banana leaf, perfectly golden-brown in the morning sun. My stomach growled. It had been almost a day since I’d properly eaten or slept, so I figured a solid breakfast would put me in a better mood.

“Bein mote,” chuckled the woman, as I pointed to the pancakes and threw her a couple kyat. She smiled and handed me my flapjack.

I had barely walked ten paces away before I gracelessly shoved the pancake in my mouth… and immediately realized that this strange ‘Burmese pancake’ was no ordinary pancake at all. No, no. This was something heavenly.

It was sweet and moist, like the barley-made tsampa cakes one would find in Nepal. But overriding this were bold flavors of nuts, and maybe banana (I thought I could see the seeds), and something else that I just couldn’t put my finger on…

Time slowed around me as my knees went weak. For a long, magic moment I stood there, passionately making out with my pancake, while somewhere in the distance, Kenny G softly crooned on a saxophone.

Then suddenly I was alone, and my pancake was gone. And the world was cold.

I charged back to the pancake stall and thrusted a wad of bills in the woman’s face. “MORE!” I ordered.

Several moments later, I was in rapture again, making sweet love to my breakfast cake as velvety saxophone caressed the air….

“MORE!”

“MORE!”

It was on my third or fourth return, when the woman noticed me pushing towards her through the mob, eyes wide, forehead dripping with sweat, that she burst into a relentless fit of laughter. In my ignorance, I assumed it was because I was eating so much, and because I’m big and goofy and white. Which is partially accurate.

But I simply didn’t realize what I was eating…

When my stomach was filled with pancake, and my camera with fine pictures, I bid the market farewell. The walk back to my guesthouse was all blue skies and songbirds. I was re-energized, walking on clouds, bouncing with highly unusual optimism and energy. I felt great. I could pick up a car.

“I love this town!” I announced to Harri, the large, Panjabi proprietor of the guesthouse, as I barged into the lobby. Harri nodded as I gushed about the market, and the fascinating culture of the hill tribes, and the mountains of chili and ginger and meats, and those unbelievable Burmese pancakes.

At this, Harri raised an eyebrow. “Pancakes?”

“Yeah, there were pancakes…” I muttered. I fished out my camera and toggled over to the photo I had snapped, of the pancakes being majestic on a banana leaf. Harri inspected the photo for a moment, before a look of amusement washed over his face. “That’s not pancakes! That’s bein mote!” he exclaimed.

“Huh?” I already knew I was in deep shit.

“Opium cakes!” he cried, and my jaw fell to the floor.

“No…” I suddenly felt very, very strange.

Harri chuckled. “How many did you eat?”

“Uh…” My eyes fell to the floor. I could feel my hair. “Four?…”

“Oooh…” he winced, and promptly retreated to the safety of his paperwork, leaving white-boy to deal with this one alone.

With my head lowered in shame, I sauntered up to the third story balcony, parked myself in a chair, and watched in horror as the impending tidal wave of morphine dragged me out to sea….

For the rest of the day, as the tribeswomen slowly returned to the hills, hauling massive wicker baskets on their heads, I sat firmly in that chair staring out at them, itching, fidgeting, and giggling idiotically to myself….

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Poignant Epilogue: When twilight fell on the village of Kalaw, and the last of the women had disappeared into the forest, I stared into a tar-stained toilet bowl, puking and shitting my brains out. The End.

The biting winter chill swirled around me as I stepped out of the plane, and I tugged my flimsy jacket close around me.

“Ni hao,” smiled the stewardess, “Welcome to Beijing.”

The 10 mg of Ambien my friend had given me in New York had warn off by now, and my grogginess was quickly being overtaken by regret. Regret over China Airlines. Regret over the two-hundred-dollar-savings that seduced me into booking this particular flight. Regret over the nightmarish, fourteen-hour layover that I was about to endure because of it.

I knew the mental hurdles of a fourteen-hour layover would be no joke. Nonetheless, I put on my best game face and readied for a war of patience, softly humming Eye of the Tiger to myself as I handed the customs official my passport. With a stamp and a huff, he waved me through, and I smiled— not knowing the horrors that awaited me.

Below is a time-coded account of my soul-crushing layover in Beijing. It highlights some useful strategies for coping with layovers, while providing a moving testament to one man’s will to survive in the face of a complete and utter mental breakdown…

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6:35PM: Arrive in Beijing. Proceed through immigrations and customs.

6:44 PM: Follow the signs to the security checkpoint. Discover that all liquids are forbidden from carry-on, and that I must check my backpack if I wish to keep my precious, western toiletries.

6:46 PM: Consider smuggling my shampoo and body wash by pouring them into condoms and swallowing them.

6:47 PM: Decide against it after considering the possibility of the condoms breaking, and the ensuing week of shitting bubbles.

6:48 PM: Laugh for five minutes at the thought of pooping bubbles.

7:03 PM: Approach flight desk and announce that I’m checking a padlocked toiletry bag.

7:14 PM: Re-attempt going through security, only to be turned back again because it turns out I’m not even allowed to enter the gate area until 5 AM the next morning…

7:15 PM: Curse god, the Beijing Capitol Airport, and China as an overall concept.

7:30 PM: Consider leaving the airport, or volunteering to get bumped and exploring Beijing for a couple days. If a flight is overbooked, it’s often possible to volunteer to give up your seat until the next (or a later) flight. My first visit to Tokyo was supposed to be a three-hour layover, but after a quick word at the check-in counter, I was granted a whole day and a half to wander the city. The airline company even covered my hotel room.

7:37 PM: Remember that I had prior arrangements to be picked up in Rangoon the next day, and decide to suffer the layover.

7:40 PM: Realize it’s time to start drinking heavily. Luckily, I’ve come prepared. Adhering to T.S.A. regulations that liquid containers under three ounces are permissible for carry-on, so long as they’re secured in a ziplock bag, I made a pre-flight trip to the liquor store and stuffed a sandwich bag with vodka nips. All I need to do now is buy a refillable soft drink at McDonalds or Burger King, and voila! I’m on the fast track to sloppy land, for ten dollars or less.

7:55 PM: Find a Burger King, claim a booth, and build a nest of shame where I shall languish and booze for the next several hours.

9:20 PM: Vodkaaaaaaaa.

11:00 PM: Finish the last of my nips, check my watch, and make the devastating realization that only three hours have passed. Fall into an inconsolable, catatonic state and just stare at my empty tray for a good twenty-five minutes.

11:28 PM: Snotty, punk Burger King employee asks me to leave. Retaliate by once again cursing god, the Beijing Capitol Airport, and China as a nation.

11:29 PM: Burger King employee doesn’t care at all.

11:38: PM: Wander the airport terminal in search of traveler amenities, places of interest, or a bookshop. Often airports provide means for travelers to wile away their time. The Kansai International Airport in Japan provides free computer stations, for example, and the Seoul International Airport houses a free museum on Korean history and culture.

11:57 PM: Discover that Beijing offers no such luxuries, nor is there even a seating area outside of the gate-areas.

12:10 AM: Angrily sit on the floor in a corner.

12:12 AM: Try to connect to WiFi. Many airports provide free WiFi, affording you infinite ways to kill time. Beijing Capitol Airport is not one of them.

12:30 AM: Stare.

12:50 AM: Staring.

1:20 AM: No.

1:36 AM: Walk laps around all 84 check-in counters as my sanity slowly unravels.

2:20 AM: Decide to pass the time by counting every light bulb in Terminal C—a desperate attempt to drown out the sweet Siren’s call of suicide.

2:39 AM: Lose count at 320, weep inconsolably.

3:59 AM: Fantasize a life that doesn’t resemble the painful shithole that is my own.

4:05 AM: Use my belt to fashion a noose.

4:07 AM: Get yelled at by an airport official for either attempting to kill myself, or taking pictures in the airport, I’m not sure which, I don’t really speak Mandarin.

5:00 AM: Bitterly proceed through check-in and stumble to my gate in an angry, disoriented haze.

5:05 AM: Feel inspiration to write an article on tips to surviving long airport layovers.

5:06 AM: Immediately berate myself for being self indulgent and hypocritical, considering how poorly I’m handling the situation, and that I’m clearly no authority on such matters.

5: 10 AM: Brown out for an hour and a half, too overwhelmed to think clearly or form new memories.

6:43 AM: Notice that I’ve scrawled across my notebook in giant letters, “OLD HOBBITS DIE HARD.”

7:14 AM: Bury my face in my shaking hands, too tired and mentally fragile to continue. Struggle to silence the endless screaming in my head.

8:02 AM:Wake up on my notebook an hour later,to the sun glaring through the windows. Realize that the plane is almost ready to board and start bum-rushing the ticket agents like it’s the fall of Saigon.

8:10 AM:Finally claim my seat on the plane. Stare vacantly at the headrest in front of me. Find solace in knowing that the road to recovery could be only a few therapy sessions and a handle of whiskey away.

8:12 AM: Remember the two hundred dollars I saved, enough to cover a week and a half of travel expenses. Resolve that it was all worth it and that I’d do it again in heartbeat. Anguish and exhaustion are fleeting. Two hundred dollars is like a whole week and a half.

8:13 AM: On second thought, I’m not sure, I could just be trying to justify my mistakes, or suppressing and marginalizing my torment the way abuse victims do. “It’s okay that Father Max touched me, he has really soft hands.”

For more useful tips and tricks on the stressful, aggravating pastime of travel, click on the “Backpackology 101” tab at the top of the page, or just look elsewhere, because clearly I have no idea what I’m talking about.

In the darkness, I could feel my heart pounding. I had been lying in bed for over an hour, staring up at the ceiling of my hotel room, fighting to breathe against the stifling heat of the Burmese monsoon, which hung over me like a wet towel. I fumbled towards the window and threw open the blinds.

It was in that moment, as the neon glow of Rangoon spilled into the room, that the reality of my predicament finally sank it, and the weight of my decisions came crashing over me like an avalanche: I was alone, three-thousand miles away from home, in a strange, fascist country, with six-hundred dollars in my pocket that would need to last me a month (ATMs are nonexistent in Burma), no ticket home, and absolutely no idea as to what I was doing.

This might raise a few immediate questions. Like, what the fuck is wrong with you? For several minutes, I stood there, staring out the window in my boxers, legitimately questioning my sanity. I grasped for answers. Why am I doing this? What could possibly motivate this reckless behavior? The only conclusion I could muster is that when my mother was pregnant with me, she ate nothing but vodka, sushi, and paint chips.

Only a few weeks prior, I was leading a normal, spectacularly uneventful life on Cape Cod. I had a house. I had a cell phone. I had a junky car that smelled like a nursing home, and an incredible group of friends. While my peers from college had moved on to the likes of New York or Los Angeles, to the glorious annals of success and salaries, I languished in lazy Mashpee, waiting tables and drinking whiskey from the bottle (which was typically plastic).

What terrified me, though, is that I was completely happy. I was content living vicariously through my successful friends, and fulfilling my insatiable wanderlust by masturbating to Travel Channel. I could feel my fiery ambitions for a creative career and traveling the world starting to fade. I’ve always wanted something more in life, but as the days crept by, that thing seemed more and more like beer and chicken wings.

It was on a cloudy, idle Tuesday that I finally declared my jihad on complacency, and in a quiet act of bravado, booked a one-way ticket to Rangoon, Burma. I didn’t really know anything about Burma at the time. I knew that it was cheap, and that the ruling dictatorship had sealed the country off from the outside world for decades. I knew that to visit there would be like traveling back in time. I knew that I was fascinated.

After years of eking out a Spartan existence on chicken, rice, and Pabst Blue Ribbon, working and saving every last penny, I figured I had amassed enough funds to last me almost two years—so long as I spent less than twenty-dollars per day.

The plan I hatched was as grandiose as it was irresponsible. I made the nervous decision to backpack across Asia, alone, for two years, to hopefully spark a career in writing or photography by documenting my adventures with this site, and to generate enough revenue from it to cover my eventual flight home. The cheesy, grade-school adage comes to mind, “Reach for the stars, and if you don’t make it, at least you’ll be stuck in the treetops,” though that hardly seems appropriate in this context. If I don’t reach this particular star, I would probably be stuck in the Philippines, penniless and without a plane ticket home, with no option but to sell my sex for pesos in the ruff-and-tumble streets of Manila. A more suitable saying would be, “Reach for the stars, and you might burn your fingers.”

In the proceeding weeks, I quit my job, packed my life into boxes, and got rid of my house and cell phone. I sold my smelly car and shared sad goodbyes with my friends and family. I even shaved my head, because I love poeticism. At no point was I scared or nervous, because I hadn’t yet clenched the gravity of what was happening. I felt like I was in a fugue state, helplessly watching the events unfold, equally amused and detached. Or I was a lemming, dumbly marching to the edge of the cliff, more concerned with butterflies and my own shadow than the craggy rocks of death that might await me five hundred feet below.

Even as I boarded the plane, I felt in a haze.

To strap on a backpack and commit yourself to a life untethered, to say goodbye to the things and people you care about, knowing that you wont see a familiar face for two years or more, is a surreal and humbling experience that’s difficult to describe. I’d compare it to standing on a dizzying high dive, staring down at a black, icy pool below. You indulge your fear and trepidation for a few minutes, before a random surge of courage forces you to jump. And in that moment, you are weightless.  You’re free falling, kicking and flailing as the world blurs before your eyes at a thousand miles an hour. Then all at once, it hits you, as you’re swallowed up by the dark, icy waters. Your senses flair, and adrenaline courses through your veins like fire. And then suddenly, you’re in Burma, staring out the window in your underwear, not really sure how it all happened. All you really know is that the lights of Rangoon look beautiful tonight, pulsating and illuminating the balmy night sky like a thousand twinkling stars; all of which seem easily in your reach….

But who knows, you could just be a lunatic. Watch your fingers.

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Catch up with the adventure! To read hear more of my moronic antics, mosey on over to the “Travel Stories” tab at the top of the page.

For tips and tricks to living like a filthy hobo and traveling on the cheap, immerse yourself in the fun and exciting world of “Backpackology 101,”on the menu bar above.

A picture’s worth a thousand words!! And you’re too lazy to read! Head on over to the “Photo Travelogues” page for pretty pictures and fun videos.

For an intimate break-down of everything that’s in my backpack, plus my “Ultimate Packing List,” check out the “What’s In My Bindle?” tab above.

So you wanna see my package? You want me to unzipper that badboy and lay it all out on the table? Sure, I will, but let me tell you about it first. Alright… So, it’s really small. So small. It’s incredible, actually… And it smells revolting. Like foot sweat and sphincters. It’s usually sweaty, covered in dust, and sometimes I get chewing gum and feces on it when I ride public buses. 

It’s a tough life indeed for my battered, old backpack. So allow me to take a few minutes to introduce you, and address the question that many of you have asked me: 

What exactly does one need for two years on the road?

The answer: Not much…

#1: A BACKPACK. Surprise! Unless you have the mental facilities of a toaster, you probably deduced that backpacking would involve a backpack. If so, good work, Columbo. You’re already a step ahead of the game. Try to shoot for a pack that’s around 30 liters, and with an internal frame.

#2: CLOTHES. You’ll likely need clothes at some point in your adventures. And be it two weeks or two years, you only need to bring three pairs of clothes. Wear one and pack the other two. To this you might say: Only three pairs of clothes?! Gross, Steve! You wear the same three shirts for months on end, surely you must look and smell like a fetid, fucking pig farmer! In which case, your accusations would only be partially true. You see, if you mix and match outfits and wash your clothes every few days, you can keep your grunge factor startlingly low.

#3: CLOTHESLINE AND SINK PLUG.

It is an inevitable backpacking truth that, sooner or later, hygiene will take a resounding backseat, and you will need to learn to appear feral and disgusting at all times. But don’t despair! Doing your laundry in the sink is easy (and free), which is great when you’re traveling with only three pairs of clothes. And if you’re in Asia, and you’re lazy like me, you can pawn the dirty work off to someone else for only a buck or two. It’s cool though, cause Asia totally digs outsourcing.

#4: COMPRESSION JACKET.

There’s not much to say about this one, I guess… The jacket goes on you, and you are warm. Oh, and even if you don’t think you’ll need one, if you’re traveling for a month or longer, consider it essential (worse comes to worse, you’ll use it as a pillow). Make sure that it’s both insulating and compressible. A light down jacket would be a worthy investment.

#5: SEXY HIDDEN MONEY BELT.

If you’re looking to improve your sex life, I’ve got the answer for you. It’s completely unrelated to the topic of money belts, however, so I shant be discussing it here. Instead, let me tell you about unflattering, elastic money belts, which should be mandatory. If you’re scoffing at the idea, know that I once did, too. That was before my third pick-pocketing incident, which was very much the opposite of fun. Your money belt is sweet, glorious respite from constantly worrying about your passport and credit cards. The elastic, around-the-torso varieties are the most comfortable and the least conspicuous.

#6: SUNGLASSES AND BANDANA.

Versatile, lightweight, and when the two are used in conjunction, unflinchingly badass. The bandana, in particular, can be deceptively useful. Use it as a towel, a head cover, a napkin, even a baggie. Use it to stuff up a drafty crack in a ramshackle bus window, or soak it in cold water and wrap it around your head to fight off the baking sun. Its uses are limited to your own creativity.

#7: ZIPLOCK MEDICAL BAG.

Of course you need a big, happy bag of pills. Don’t bring the whole pharmacy though, you can always buy medication once you’re there (often times for a fraction of the price).  Some useful medications include Immodium and Ciprofloxicin, which are both good for waging war against Third World toilet demons. If you’re going to countries affected by malaria, be sure to also bring plenty of malaria pills. Older malaria pills, like Larium, make you hallucinate goblins and babies and stuff. The newer ones, particularly Malarone, are safer, more efficient, and without the psychedelic side effects. Pity. Other useful items include a small First Aid kit for boo boos, and some condoms, which are fun for blowing balloon animals, and scaring hotel-room cleaners when cleverly placed.

#8: QUICK DRY TOWEL AND QUICK DRY SWIM SUIT.

If you’re considering bathing at any point in your trip, it would be wise to invest in a quick dry, anti-microbial towel. You should make sure your swimsuit is also quick dry. Mildewy towels and bathing suits can make even the tidiest pack smell like a butt hole in no time.

#9: TOILETRY BAG.

Nothing overly exciting here. Toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, razor, deoderant, cologne or perfume (trust me, you’ll need it!), shampoo, and body wash, all in travel sized portions.

#10: EARPLUGS.

Absolutely necessary for those times when you have snoring dorm-mates, or when you’re on a nine hour bumpy bus-ride-from-hell in rural India, with puke on your shirt and a legendary hangover, compliments to an all-night rager somewhere in Mumbai, you think, and you’re trying to endure the POUNDING in your head, but for the last forty-five minutes, this nightmarish Bollywood song has been THUNDERING from the blown out, tinny speakers, on goddamn REPEAT, and you need it to stop RIGHT NOW because your scull is about to EXPLODE out of your fucking head, but that woman’s voice just keeps SINGING and SINGING, and she sounds like Donald Duck, and now the driver’s singing too and hell itself is flashing before your eyes as you fight with every fiber of your being not to shower the old man next to you with this morning’s breakfast, while simultaneously regretting the fact that you’re an idiot for not going back to your hotel last night like you promised yourself you would and instead buying that second fucking bottle of Coconut Feni, which was a bad idea from the get-go, because you well know that drinking Coconut Feni can only end in debilitating sadness,  you spineless, alcoholic coward. You can pick up earplugs at your local pharmacy.

#11: TRAVEL ALARM CLOCK.

You need it because I said so.

#12: A SMALL DAYPACK.

I recommend bringing a small, collapsible daypack that can fold up and store within your larger pack. If you’re romping through deserts, ruins, jungles, or tombs, a daypack lets you to bring just the basics along, like bug spray, sun cream, hand sanitizer, a small L.E.D. flashlight, snacks, and hopefully…

#13: A GUIDEBOOK.

Uh oh. This one really splits the room. While the majority of backpackers rally behind the guidebook, there remains a camp of often self-proclaimed “hardcore” backpackers who deem guidebooks below them. I find it colossally stupid, and I feel a violent rant coming on, so I’m going to spare you by stopping myself now.

#14: CAMERA.

The things I do to take cool pictures…

#15: SILK SLEEP SACK.

Sorry to crush your sparkling, gum-drop backpacking dreams, but at some point in your glorious trip, you’re going to have to bed down on a filthy, horrifying mattress. In developing countries, few places supply you with a set of sheet, and in the unfortunate circumstance that they do, it will closer resemble a starched canvas of bed bugs and cum stains. Having a sleep sack remedies this. Almost.

#16: A BUNDLE OF ZIPLOCK BAGS AND ELASTIC BANDS.

If you’re in the third world for an extended period of time, you’ll probably start to realize just how many wondrous comforts of home you have taken for granted. Good hospitals, proper schools, roads, clean water, Maury Pauvich, nachos, ziplock bags, elastic bands… Those last two you’ll find particularly precious, and you’ll be hard pressed to find them in most corners of the globe. Trust me, they come in handy far more frequently than you think, so pack a bunch.

#17: LUXURY ITEMS.

Ouch. You’ve stumbled upon my Achilles heel. Luxury items are perhaps the most common excuse for turning a thirteen pound bag into a thirty pound bag. But if you’re traveling for more than six months, or if you’re traveling solo, carrying some fun toys along might translate to extra weight, but consider it extra weight in gold. In my pack, I’ve succumbed to bringing a laptop and an iPod. But that’s not all. I share a turbulent love affair with smoking flavored tobacco, so I tote around a small, steel travel hookah as well (which never fails to make a scene at airport security).

So you’ve got everything you need for your big adventure. As a final test to see if you’ve over-packed, walk around with your backpack on for an hour or so. If it starts to hurt at any point, you lose! Back to the drawing board. When you get it nice and light, it’s time for the fun part: IMPACT TESTING!! Throw it, stamp on it, kick it, call it names. Pretend you’re Tonya Harding and bludgeon it with a pole. Laugh. Laugh. When you finally calm down and your hands stop shaking, check inside the bag. If anything’s broken, you lose again. Your bag is sure to take similar beatings on the road, so you need to be prepared. If you’ve passed the test, however, congratulations! You’re ready for adventures.

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For more exciting and vital information on the art of vagabonding, you’ll find everything you never knew you needed to know by clicking the “Backpackology 101” tab at the top of this page. Happy travels!

If you know who I am, or the adventure I’m about to embark on for the next two years, you might call me overly cavalier, which is fair. Cavalier is a great synonym for stupid. My name is Steve—Steve McDonald—and at this fleeting moment, I am a disappointed, twenty-three year old waiter at a chintzy, godforsaken restaurant. Having recently received a hard-earned college degree in ~**~*arts~*~**~ (laugh, cry), I’ve come to a terrifying realization—a realization that most post-grads experience after being unscrupulously dropped into the horrors of “the real world.” That is: I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing with my life, and I’m shaking in my Converse. I guess I had always just expected something big to happen to me upon stepping through the grand archway of adulthood. But instead of Warner Bros swooping down from the heavens and whisking me off to fortunes and fame, I’m just kind of sitting here, on a degree, feeling as though Manifest Destiny has been foisted down my throat. It’s a cold feeling when you realize the apex of your professional responsibilities is serving Cape Cod Reubens and Wildberry Lemonades to the cantankerous senior-set. Sure, I have hopes and dreams, but mostly I just bring people extra ketchup.

I’m about to change all that, however. I’m about to do something momentous. Daring. Exhilarating.

You might even say, cavalier…

I can think of some other exciting words that suit me: Reckless. Irresponsible. Unspeakably good-looking. Bankrupt of any sense of reality. For all I know, this grand adventure that I, and hopefully you, are about to embark on could quite possibly end with me sprawled face down in some goat cave in Pakistan, sobbing like Nancy Kerrigan as a mob of Taliban zealots sodomize every orifice on my body to the tune of “American Idiot.”  All of which is liable to be broadcasted on your local news. Alas, I’ve been lusting for adventure since I was little, sitting under the covers late at night, leafing through National Geographic like travel porn. I’ll be damned if anything stops me now.

I grew up, and still live in the gentrified, vanilla suburbs of Massachusetts, much to my dismay. And in February, 2012, I will quit my job, don a backpack, and correct the situation indefinitely. This website is the story of my hobofication.

My mission: To backpack across Asia, from Mumbai to Manila, alone, over the course of two years. There will be no plans, no reservations. Just a backpack. My trail starts in India, before winding up through tumultuous Pakistan to the frozen heights of Tibet, then big, red China, followed by Burma, Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, Borneo, Brunei, and ending in the turquoise archipelago of the Philippines.

This blog is a story about a guy who packed a backpack and left everything he knew behind for two years. This is my ode to life, my manifesto to location independence, and my Motorcycle Diaries or Eat, Pray, Love, albeit with more explosive diarrhea, scamming, and animal attacks. Want to come along? Of course you do! You’re just sitting on your ass, trawling Facebook.

Join the adventure, starting this February. If you’d like to be informed when the fun begins, simply click the “Follow Me” button in the sidebar. I hope to see you soon.

Go on. Click the button. Right now. I’m watching you. Just do it. Do it. Click the button. I love you.

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Catch up with the adventure! To read hear more of my moronic antics, mosey on over to the “Travel Stories” tab at the top of the page.

For tips and tricks to living like a filthy hobo and traveling on the cheap, immerse yourself in the fun and exciting world of “Backpackology 101,”on the menu bar above.

A picture’s worth a thousand words!! And you’re too lazy to read! Head on over to the “Photo Travelogues” page for pretty pictures and fun videos.

For an intimate break-down of everything that’s in my backpack, plus my “Ultimate Packing List,” check out the “What’s In My Bindle?” tab above.

For a real-time map of my location, and for the most up-to-date stories, check out Backpackology’s main site: www.backpackology.org